


The Memory of Valour

by fly_freebird



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Arrests, Attempted Suicide, Depression, Drug Use, Holmes Family, Hurt/Comfort, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Suicide mention, Young Mycroft, Young Sherlock, bamf anyone, drug mention, drugsdrugsdrugs, eurus mention, mycroft childhood, pre-ASiP, self harm mention, sherlock childhood
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:27:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21996733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fly_freebird/pseuds/fly_freebird
Summary: "Self-love, my liege, is not so vile a sin as self-neglecting."- Henry V (William Shakespeare)The Victorian John Watson is quite right, Sherlock does have a past, though mutual sentiment and romance has nothing to do with it. Sherlock's past is a whirlwind of drugs, depression, death, and friends, friends who saved him, friends who pulled him out of a whirlpool threatening to drown him in his own mind. It's always been deep waters for Sherlock, and always will be.
Relationships: Anthea & Sherlock Holmes, Eurus Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes & Milgonette Holmes, Sherlock Holmes & Molly Hooper, Sherlock Holmes & Mycroft Holmes & Mrs. Hudson & Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes & Siger Holmes
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	1. Introduction: A Fever Dream

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my first Sherlock fanfiction, I hope you like it! Obviously, this is not the rest of the fanfiction won't be like this, I hoped this would be sort of an introduction. Please enjoy, and give feedback!

_It's a freakish day in Freakville,  
_ _And the freaks go out to play  
_ _With the Mum and Dad and girl and boy  
_ _Out on a freaky day!_

_It's a freakish day in Freakville,  
Though one freak boy stays at home  
With his books and sets and vials and pet  
The freak is all alone!  
_

_Oh, it's a freakish day in Freakville,  
When the other freaks aren't real  
Imagined by a little freak  
Who cannot feel.  
_

_It's a freakish day in Freakville  
As the day turns to night  
And the freak boy who's all alone  
_ _Is filled with spite._

_But the freak can't go to act  
_ _On his desire to hurt  
_ _Because they banished him from Normaland  
_ _With their mean words_

_Oh, how funny is our freak!  
_ _His sadness, what a tale!  
_ _He invents others to play with  
_ _And always looks sick and pale._

_It's a freakish day in Freakville  
And there's a sad little freak  
Who's always hiding  
And there's no-one there to seek!_

_It's a freakish day in Freakville,  
A freak that's spiteful at himself  
And screams inside for there's none in sight  
No, there's no-one else._


	2. By The Pricking Of My Thumbs,  Something Wicked This Way Comes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which emotions are shared and pain is received.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are footnotes at the end, I suggest you look at them to fully understand. Usually I don't write long chapters (if this could be seen as long), I'm just trying this out. Please enjoy, as it's my first Sherlock fanfiction. I'd appreciate some feedback in the comments!

**1996**

Sherlock lay there, curled unto himself. The small chair was comfortable, and there was no strain on his neck nor shoulders. He wasn't in a compromising position nor situation, yet he could feel tension developing between his eyebrows. The pressure continued to accumulate, relentless, pulling mercilessly at his mind. He closed his eyes, eyebrows knotted together in inexplicable frustration. The room was warm, suddenly it was _too warm_ , and the back of his neck prickled with blistering heat whilst, simultaneously, a chill crept down his spine. Oh, how he hated his transport! It was too contradictory, too annoying. Sherlock crawled out of his father's chair, desperate to move, for he was fearful his limbs might subject to paralysis, however illogical the thought was¹. His head disagreed with the rapid movement, and his vision swirled, a certain dizziness accompanying his every movement. _Oh, for God's sake,_ he thought, rapping his head with his knuckles violently, his other hand clutching and pulling on his curls in a useless attempt to ground himself. _Stupid nerves, stupid transport,_ his inner voice muttered as he stalked out of his father's study, intentionally weighting his footsteps. He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to remove the prickly, needle-like sensation that aggravated his skin as he advanced into the corridor. 

"Sherlock! What in God's name are you doing?" Mycroft's frankly annoying voice called, and Sherlock dug his nails in his palms in frustration. Why couldn't they just shut up and leave him alone for a few hours? He heard footsteps down the hall; no doubt it was Mycroft trying to see what his stupid little brother was up to. How quaint, for both of them. Mycroft rounded the corner and Sherlock growled to himself. _Stupid, stupid, stupid!_ he thought. _Stupid house, stupid body, stupid brother, stupid everything!_

"What are you doing, Sherlock?" Mycroft demanded, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. His schoolwork was not excessively difficult, yet university took a toll on him, leaving him with dark circles around his eyes and an almost-ruined posture. He looked a bit silly right then, with unruly hair and a sweaty face, but Sherlock was in no mood for laughing at his elder brother in his sleep-riddled state. "I'm not doing anything," he mumbled, curling his toes to sturdy himself. "Are you feeling well?" came the response.

"I'm _fine_! Leave me alone. Go back to sleep. Rest assured that I'm not shaming the family name." He felt no guilt behind those words, only resentment and spite. Though there was no satisfaction in seeing the twinge of sadness in Mycroft's otherwise impassive expression, he still wanted him to know that there would be no sentiment coming from him that night. "Are you having one of your _episodes_ , again, brother mine?" the elder Holmes leaned forward, as if interrogating him. Well, if he would play it like that, so be it. "Shut up, Myc. Go away."

"No. Come with me." Mycroft grabbed his little brother's arm, roughly pulling him from where he stood rooted. Sherlock had not expected the action, and uselessly trailed behind, trapped in his elder brother's iron grip. He was led to the front door of the house, and Mycroft swung the door open, a cold draft sneaking into the warm sitting room. He pushed Sherlock outside, where the younger stood barefooted on the icy slabs of pavement. He shrieked, but relaxed after a few moments of hopping around, the freezing air flooding him in a way that was most easing to his overactive senses. The icky prickly feeling disappeared, and he allowed himself to be led back inside the house by his brother, breathing a sigh of relief. "Are you better?" Mycroft's inquiry reached his ears after a few seconds, and Sherlock answered in a tiny voice, to his brother's relief, "Yes. Thank you, Myc."

He found himself following Mycroft to his room, the elder thankfully not commenting. Without a word they climbed into bed, Mycroft wrapping Sherlock in his arms. "Mycroft?"

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry."

"It is of no consequence, dear brother. All is forgiven."

And so Sherlock slept, axons calmed, safe in the arms of his brother.  
  


Mycroft was to go the following morning. Oxford threatened his dreams, the stress following him into any sleep he acquired, and the fact his holiday was nearing an end did no good to his subconscious. He silently climbed out of bed, careful not to wake his little brother, and packed, unwilling to let Sherlock see him. It would make him tremendously upset, and he did not want to see that happen. He piled his bags at the front door and went to the kitchen to cook breakfast for his family, the last breakfast they'd share with him for a very long time.

Unfortunately, Sherlock awoke very late that morning, his twelve year-old self catching up on hours of lost sleep. He was only there to see his brother go, only able to give him one goodbye before parting. He retreated to his room and curled up in the sheets; it would do him no good to see Mycroft's car pulling out of the driveway, disappearing in the midst of the early morning traffic. Sherlock was more than upset at himself for resenting his brother that night, wishing he could take back his words. If only he wasn't so sick in the head, if only he could keep his nerves under control...

It was a quiet, somber day at the Holmes's. He could hear his mother and father muttering about the fire at Musgrave, and how much better it was in their new house in London. He could hear a great many things, a few birds, the occasional car driving past, a couple chittering squirrels, but he did not bother moving. His parents didn't even bother calling him down for dinner, they no longer did. It hurt him, just a little. Just a little.  
  


The next day was one Sherlock dreaded. It was Monday, January 6, the end of his winter holiday. His thirteenth birthday. He had no inclination to go to school, nor any wish to interact with his classmates. He did not want to upset his parents, however, who never asked him of anything anymore, and he wanted to make his mother proud. He knew it would upset her if he skipped his classes, and though he often didn't care about others' distress, it bothered some part of him to see his mother disappointed, with a look that was not pride and satisfaction on her face. He packed his bag, gave his mother a hug, and left the house. He didn't eat breakfast. He didn't need to. 

The walk to school was one he found unpleasant. The mean dogs next door barked uncomfortably loud, three young children decided it would be funny to pelt him with a few river stones, and a cyclist roughly shoved him aside, shouting a halfhearted, "Sorry!" behind her. It was a less-than-agreeable commute, as was his first few classes, in which he was chastised once for being too smart and muttered about for being "too odd for the world". He trudged to his third class, already feeling weighed down. Usually this started to happen after lunch, but, with his morning, he couldn't say it was unexpected.

Ten minutes in, he noted the slight shaking of his right hand as he picked up his pencil. He noticed his left thumb twitching as it rested against his knee. _Not again_ , he thought, irritated at his transport. He looked around the room, twisting in his seat. More than half of his classmates he didn't bother with, didn't even bother looking at. All their faces were covered with a big white word, "Mean." The rest he didn't care for, for they did not care for anyone. Who he was looking for was his teacher, Ms. Assange², a perky young thing. She was a creature of habit and gentleness, and she doted on each of them as if they were her children. She was fresh out of university, and of a very kind nature; she was Sherlock's favorite teacher. His face fell when he realized she was not there. He turned back to his paper, the tremors worsening, but what could he do? His nerves worked and malfunctioned all on their own.

He heard sniggers and whispers behind him, and they crawled their way into his ears. It was the girls, only the girls whispered this way. They whispered in a way that was not whispering at all, and their bell-like giggles drove him mad with their ringing. He hated them, he hated their gossip, and so he finished his work and buried his head in his arms to block them out.

_Did you hear-? And she was all like- Bloody hell, Meg! And I was so- Ugh, I know right? Oh, hahaha! He was so cute- You should totally ask him out! Hahaha!_

He sat up when he felt a tap on his shoulder. It was one of the girls and she looked down at him, bashful and shy. "We were, um, we were wondering if you'd, um, like to sit with us." Sherlock did not want to upset her, for she actually bothered to be polite to him, but he didn't know how to answer her. Dumbly, he asked, "Where?" She pointed to their table (which was simply a grouping of desks) and quickly added, "We just wanted to ask a few questions." He felt unsure but followed her. _Would they mock him? Or were they actually going to ask him questions? What were the questions about? Would they slap him like the other girls did before break?_ He sat down awkwardly, his hands shaking violently with apprehension.

"What's your name?" one girl asked, her high-pitched voice drilling into his brain. He could control himself, he could answer these. "My name is Sherlock," he answered quietly. How didn't she know his name? They'd been in this class together for months. The girl cocked her head and narrowed her eyes slightly. "No, seriously, what's your name? No one names their kid Sherlock."

"That's my real name." The girl narrowed her eyes further, tilting her head in the other direction. Sherlock noted this as a sign of interest, and he sat uncomfortably as they stared at him. "Are you a homo?" one girl piped up, her face shining with self-proclaimed brilliance. He cringed at the bluntness and answered, "No." 

"Are you smart?"

"I suppose."

"Do you have siblings?"

"Yes."

"How many? Do any of them go here?"

"I have one. He's my brother. And no, he does not go here. He's in college. I don't think you'd like him, though," he quickly added when he saw half the girls begin to swoon. This continued for a while, them asking mindless questions and he answering them to the best of his ability (ability not to yell, that is). When they invited him to sit with them at lunch, he accepted, for they weren't as cruel and annoying as he'd originally thought them to be, and his unease dropped down a notch. He knew they were a bit presumptuous, but he did not want to give them a cold shoulder. He was almost... flattered by their interest in him, but that wasn't an assumption he'd jump to so quickly. He'd still be on his guard, for, in his experience, first impressions are often very true. He retreated to his seat when he heard his teacher's distinct footsteps down the hall, and noted his hands shook less violently than before. Perhaps that wasn't a good thing.  
  


It wasn't a good thing. He felt himself pushed against the hard brick walls of the school, the coarse surface biting into his back. Admittedly, it wasn't the most painful thing biting into him. He could no longer see her face, it was blocked by a big white word, in all caps, saying, "Evil." He should've remembered that first impressions were always correct, in his case, certainly. Though, to an extent, that was not true. He had, in fact, underestimated her. The redhead bit into his neck and sunk her nails deep into his arm when he yelped. Naturally, he knew why she did it.

The redhead (whose name he would never utter again) had the air of a control freak, imperious, demanding. A girl like her, with her pear-like body shape was bound to have a boyfriend, one who was concerned with her looks. She had the collarbone of a young woman who constantly diets and starves herself, the collarbone of insecurity. She was being cheated on, and she knew it, for her delayed menstrual cycles did nothing to help the acne on her face. He knew it, she knew it. She struck Sherlock as good-looking; she wasn't ugly by any means. However, the student body had quite a different outlook.

So here they were, during lunch break. She'd pushed him against the wall in an attempt to make her boyfriend jealous, and, with the lack of his attention, resorted to more aggressive means of inciting some sort of anger in her partner. The redhead wouldn't get reprimanded for this, without a doubt the boyfriend would come back to her, and she'd get what she wanted. No, Sherlock was the one who'd be taught a lesson, though anyone could see he was the one being assaulted. He thought they were being _nice_. He thought the girls actually wanted to be his _friend_. Why would they?

Why would they?

A sharp bite brought himself back to reality, the reality he longed to avoid. She drew blood, even though Sherlock had not laid a finger on her. What had he done? It wasn't fair. He exited the small courtyard of his school, retreating to the night before Mycroft left. It was cold and warm and it was comfortable. Couldn't he have Mycroft back? Didn't he deserve at least that? The smell of crisp, chill air, the feeling as it flowed through his airways. The rush of blood to his feet as he stood on the cold slabs of pavement, up and down again. He should be granted that, shouldn't he? Shouldn't he...?  
  


He returned home without uttering another syllable. He didn't get smart with the teachers, he did not speak to his classmates save for the occasional mumble. The hideous marks left on his neck and collarbone were safely concealed as he flipped the collar of his shirt up, and his already long-ish hair covered what the shirt could not. The shirt covered multiple things, actually. They covered a few bruises, a few scrapes, a few beads of dried blood, safely hidden away behind a flimsy cloth. Amazing, what people are willing to ignore as long as they can't see it.

He did not speak as he went to his room and locked the door. He could hear his mother humming a little song, he could practically smell her perfume off the tune³ she sang. He leaned heavily against the door, his palms bracing against it, trying and failing to prevent his knees from giving out underneath him. He shouldn't have gone to the girls' table. He shouldn't have given up or told them anything. All he ever did was screw things up for himself and for others. And this was a very big screw-up indeed.

He pulled his collar to his shoulder, looked in the mirror, and winced at the pulsating pinkish-purplish mark that awaited him. The simple sight of it made him want to scratch it raw, rip every centimeter of skin off of it until there were no traces of _her_ left on him. This, he could not report, _this_... this was monstrous.

Sherlock changed into a turtleneck and sat on his bed, brooding. He was an idiot, quite so, but he was not stupid. Or maybe he was, a little. A complete dumbarse. But he was not... he was not... _I'm wasting my breath_ , he thought, but almost pulled his hair out when he realized he wasn't speaking at all.

_I need and want so many things. I don't know what I need more, to be special or to ground myself. I want to fly but when I do I'm falling and it feels like dying and I want gravity and to stay on solid ground... I don't want to think and I want to think quicker. Look at me! The human contradiction! How quaint. Everything's been available to me as it is and I ruined and ruin everything. How can I be so fucking dumb? I want to stop, makeitstopmakeitstopmakeitstopmakeitstopmAKEITSTOP-_

He punched himself in the face, and he no longer floated. He stopped falling from the sky into emptiness. His heart stopped but was racing too fast. He heard the honking of the cars in the street below but they were right next to his ear, blaring in his ear, and the light was so bright and _oh shit, there's a light⁴. Fuck._  
  


Later that week Sherlock was subject to a number of casualties. The first one succeeded his loss of control, the loss of control being him angrily turning around and yelling at his classmate to, "Shut up!" It wasn't taken very kindly, and the same classmate punched his shoulder in a manner that was, by no means, playful. The second was the result of his hypersensitive nerves. The marks left by the redhead began to ache and he found himself pressing his hands to it one too many times, in a foolish thought that it might, somehow, repress the nonexistent pain⁵. It proved to cause him more pain, for when he began to repeat the action, he accidentally elbowed someone's neck, and that someone, in a flurry of rage, elbowed him back in the unfortunate spot where a bruise from previous bullying was still healing. It hurt.

Finally, someone decided to poke fun at "the freak" and trail their fingertips up and down his back and arms. Sherlock twitched in response and after a few seconds could not take it anymore. He slashed at the invader's arm and sunk his nails into it, feeling a small surge of satisfaction at the expression of pain on the perpetrator's face. He sunk his nails in deeper⁶ and let go, both wounds drawing blood. He lived in the hope that confrontation would serve as a warning to others to not touch him again. It did not. Just his luck. The perpetrator kicked his shins, and when he fell down after repeated kicks, they actually stomped on his stomach and left, cursing about the freak. The freak, in turn, got up painfully and stalked off with a slight hunch in his back that Mycroft would find very unbecoming. He didn't care. The weekend was coming up and he'd finally find his reprieve.

Sherlock returned home with his strength rapidly deteriorating (that stomp on his stomach was a lot more forceful than it seemed). Stepping into the bathroom, he rid himself of his clothes and took an almost scalding hot shower, painfully aware of the various scores and scratches on his body. He prodded at an indigo bruise on the left side of his ribs, forcing himself to see where the pain began to affect him. There was a dull ache after pressing so deeply he could feel his ribcage, and he smiled; it was working, then⁷. He stared down at the littering of markings on his torso, picking at scabs, and unconsciously scrubbing harshly at his neck and collarbone. The time not cleaning was spent brooding at the bottom of the tub, the water soothingly running down his back, certain to leave heat rashes from the intensely warm temperature. He'd have to stop soon, of that he was aware, and so he shut off the water, dressed in his clothes, and finished the homework he'd so uncharacteristically avoided doing during the schoolday. Flopping on his bed, he sighed, and pushed the stray curls from his face. He heard conversation and a gasp of delight from his father downstairs, and excited chattering following it. A phone call, no doubt, his parents would never reach that level of ecstasy with each other. He caught a few words: government, uncles, money, military intelligence, and some political jargon. It was not a difficult deduction to make that they'd just received news of Mycroft's new involvement with the government with Uncle Rudi's help. The government would obviously make way for a powerful, wealthy, obstinate, and very white man in relation to a prodigious nephew with remarkable powers of observation. Considering Uncle Rudi's previous position with the politics of Britain, that would give a wider window for Mycroft to pursue his dreams. Though, on reflection, it was suspiciously early for this to happen. They'd only seen "the smart one" not more than a week ago, leaving no time at all for any official proceedings. When was this supposed to have happened?

 _Mum and Dad won't see it_ , he thought bitterly. _They'd be far too wrapped up in the success of their neurotypical, not-disappointment son._ He knew he was being unfair, but perhaps for once he'd be able to think disrespectful thoughts without being berated. A series of slurs and terrible curse words in every language knowledgeable to him flooded his mind, cursing Rudi Vernet and the wickedness that followed him, the corruption no one saw but Sherlock. Pushing himself off his bed with considerable force and walked briskly downstairs, jumping from the second to last step. He strode up to their home phone and punched in the number he memorized the first time he saw it in their telephone directory. His mother was in the kitchen; she wouldn't hear his call over the whistles of her pressurized cooker or the steady chops of her knives. His father was lightly (but almost happily) snoring away a couple of metres from where he was currently standing, and it was just as good, for the call he was going to make was a private one. He listened to the rings, twisting the phone cord around his index finger in anticipation, and relaxed his tense shoulders when the person receiving the call picked up. Ms. Assange's silky voice called, "Hello, who is this?"

"Good evening, Miss."

"Oh, Sherlock! What can I do for you?"

And so Sherlock spilled his inconveniences to Ms. Assange. He told her of his and his brother's last encounter and how deeply he regretted his words, and how much the regret stung, for he didn't usually feel it. He told her of his frustrations with his parents and his distrust of Uncle Rudi. He told her of his misgivings of Mycroft's new "promotion" and how no one could see how suspicious it was. The things of which he spoke held years of hurt and personal anguish of which he trusted no one but her and the walls of his room. Of course, Sherlock left out the bullying and the redheaded girl; he was in no mood to get harmed again for being a snitch, and, in truth, it did not bother him as much as it should have. And he told her that as well, his differences, and what things pained him that to others would seem so insignificant (or perhaps too significant it would seem made up) or bizarre but to him meant far more, and to what depth "things" pained him, and to what depth the "things" must be in order to pain him. Ms. Assange listened carefully and silently, and when he stopped abruptly to breathe (it had occurred to him he had not paused for a minute during his rant), she consoled him in a way that was evidently not pitying or overly-sympathetic. Her consolation was accompanied with logic, firmness, and a soft voice, for she loved the boy as if he were her own child and wished only the best for him. The phone call assuaged his normally repressed distress, and was apparent not in his voice but his silence. 

"Sherlock, you are wonderful, don't you ever doubt that. That last night with your brother could hardly be conceived as your fault. Being born the way you are was not a consequence of your actions. From the story I was given, you had endured that episode of irritation for as long as you were able to. Any other person would've broken down so much earlier than that, and I know what you're thinking: any normal person would not have these issues, but you're mistaken. There are thousands just like you, and you know it. Maybe you feel alone right now, and misunderstood, and you are misunderstood, I don't doubt that. But many others do what you did, perhaps far worse. That does not mean they are bad people. And that does not mean you are a bad person, either.

"As to your parents, if they're not, they should be delighted they have a son as bright and intelligent and wonderful as you. But for you to tell them what's wrong, there must be communication. I understand that has mostly been severed, and I know how difficult it is to reconnect with them, for I had trouble too when I was your age. But you must explain that this bothers you, the subtle secrecy, the not talking. Or at least show that it bothers you. You will never get anything if you do not say anything. There is nothing I can do, nor can I be held responsible if they react harshly or retaliate in some questionable way. If they do, I will still be here for anything you need. This offer stands until the end of time, for anything.

"And Sherlock? I met Rudi Vernet a few years ago, when I was still in university, and I got the same impression as you did. I assume your parents overlooked the suspicion in this whole government thing and in him as a result of familial sentiment. However, I would not jump to such a conclusion so quickly. Perhaps they ignored it in their happiness, but I know them enough to see that they'd know if someone is trustworthy or not. Maybe they're just being kind in front of you, or to show you that no matter how deceitful or dishonest an elder is, you must still show respect. I do believe in that, but I also believe that it shouldn't be taken as far as this, based on what you're saying. 

"Also, your differences do not define you. You have a very different perception than the majority of us, and that is not something to scold, but to be admired, for it is a very fine quality of yours that makes you admirable. I have spoken to our other teachers on behalf of you, and it is a trend in the old-fashioned grown-up that they resent anyone that is smarter than them. It is a fault of theirs that should not be overlooked as it is. You are special, and they are the arrogant ones. You want to know something? Arrogance is not a thing to be punished, but to be ignored, for soon the wrongdoer will have nothing to be haughty for. Do you understand?"

Sherlock nodded and said in a quiet voice, "Yes. Thank you, Ms. Assange, for your kind advice."

"There is no need to sound formal, dear, I'd love to help, as you've heard many times before." His lips curved up in a smile at that; this wasn't the first time he'd phoned her. He'd done so quite a few times in the past, and received the same message every time with no hint of exasperation in any of them. "I really must be going now, I shall see you in class on Monday. Goodbye, Sherlock, I do hope I'll be hearing from you when things get better!"

"Goodnight, Ms. Assange," he replied, the hint of a smile in his voice. He certainly felt better than before. He allowed himself a twinge of hope, perhaps things would be better than before.  
  


¹This is an actual feeling that exists. It has happened to me on a number of occasions where I find that I cannot move even though I want to. I contemplated it many times, with a touch of philosophy. I might share it sometime or other.

²A nice little reference to someone Benedict Cumberbatch has played: Julian Assange. For those who don't know him, he is the founder of WikiLeaks. Of course, Ms. Assange does not have the personality of Julian, but for lack of a better surname, I put that there.

³This, too, is a thing. I don't know if other people do this, but occasionally I can catch whiffs of various different scents with no particular source for the scent. It often comes with words or pictures or something close to that. So when Sherlock "smells the perfume off the tune" his brain is unconsciously associating his mother's perfume to that happy little melody, and, in turn, his brain is creating that scent for him even though it is not actually there.

⁴This light is called an aura, which precedes a really bad migraine. People have different kinds of auras, I have visual auras which take the form of lights in front of my eyes that don't go away. Sherlock is stressed, so that's bound to cause a migraine. Auras usually last 10-20 minutes before going away, and there is a gap between that and the actual migraine. His cursing is actually a reaction to mine of an aura two days ago, when I realized the lights I was seeing were not going away.

⁵This nonexistent pain is a condition called fibromyalgia. It is a neurological condition characterized by muscle tenderness and pain. Often times there is no physical cause for this, so what the girl did to Sherlock was not actually causing the pain. Since Sherlock exhibits signs of being mildly autistic, I assumed he'd be subject to neurological health issues, so I thought it wouldn't be farfetched if he suffered from this as well.

⁶This may seem a bit OOC, but I figured there must be some reason why he thinks himself to be a sociopath. He certainly feels things and knows the difference between what is morally right and wrong, and often times hurting others can be relieving (I certainly find it to be so) so I think it could work. I actually did what he did in this scene to my brother and one of my classmates, so that was a bit of inspiration for that.

⁷This is Sherlock developing an immunity to pain. Many people do it, and in the show he functions very well though severely hurt (e.g. The Empty Hearse), so he must have developed a tolerance for it in his childhood. Being hypersensitive, it's unlikely he was born with a high tolerance for pain, so he must have immunized himself to it. That's what I think, at least.


	3. Where Ignorance is Bliss, 'Tis Folly to be Wise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which angst runs deep into the depths of the soul.
> 
> There is a lot of symbolism in this chapter. For those AP Reading Students who aren't tired yet, it'd be nice if you spotted it and dropped it down in the comments :))

It was a long time before Ms. Assange's offer was accepted. A long five years, in fact, had passed before Sherlock went to her again. He had long since graduated secondary school, jumping quickly to university. He was more than glad at leaving Dame Alice Owen's School, and he left Ms. Assange, surprisingly, with a hug and wonderful words. Between the years of his graduation and his encounter with her, he would leave gifts with her, hoping she'd smile at them. There was hardly a gap between his education, serving a longer time period between his last encounter with his teacher. No matter how long had passed, however, he had never deleted her offer from his mind. He knew that soon he'd have to make use of it, and that he did. 

A great many things had happened between their goodbyes as he graduated secondary school and his abrupt meeting with her five years later. He followed her advice from their phone call and established that communication meant asking things of his mother and father. He hardly recounted the last time he'd asked something of them, and was almost reluctant to do it. However, his need to end his frustrations with them won the battle, and he settled for asking his mother to make one of her frog cakes, which had grown popular among their neighbours whenever they came around for a visit. He hadn't known what her reaction might be; he thought she'd give an indifferent shrug and casually make one. Sherlock hadn't anticipated the big grin that would spread across her face, and her rush to make it meticulously and fervently. He caught himself before his jaw dropped open. This was so... _confusing_. Sherlock had done nothing for his mother as of late, and... it made no sense! This wasn't how other people were supposed to work!

He watched his mother with panic and a hint of fascination; it had just occurred to him how little he knew about social cues. And so when the frog cake was done, he figured he should add to his mother's happiness, and he gave her a sufficient enough Holmesian hug. The receiver of the brief and awkward hug smiled even wider and returned it; perhaps things were getting better for her son. Her heart burst with as much happiness as it had when they'd received word of Mycroft's sudden success. Finally, her two boys would be as happy as they would allow themselves to be, and perhaps their family would be the tiniest bit more complete.

The next day their neighbours had phoned them. Sherlock's mother answered with a skip in her step that was audible in her voice; she had not yet "fully recovered" from her jubilation the previous day. "Hello, who is this?" she asked, unable to keep the smile out of her words. "Hello, Milgonette¹! It's me, Anke. What's got you so chipper?"

"Oh, Anke, it's wonderful! My son is-"

"Wait, which son? The elder or the, er... the _autistic_ one?"

Milgonette frowned for a second, feeling discomfort at the uncertain... almost disgusted tone of Anke's voice as she said those last few words. "The _autistic one_ ," she said, upholding a level of mockery that Mycroft had certainly gotten from her², though controlling her voice. Anke had been kind to them when they first moved to the city five years ago; she wouldn't want to destroy one of the few bonds the Holmes family had made since the fire at Musgrave. "I think he's finally coming through. There's no greater happiness than knowing your child is happy too, you know."

"Yes, I suppose you're right," Anke replied plaintively. "And there is no greater sorrow than when your spouse and his family rejects you." Milgonette faked a gasp of concern, for she did not typically indulge in the marital misfortunes of others, nor did she usually particularly care. Romantic entanglement was a subject she did not dwell on, nor find interest in, with the exception of Siger, of course. "I'm sure there are greater sorrows, dear, but what's happened?"

And that drove their beloved neighbour into a tear-filled and angry rant about how her failed apple strudel led to her permanent mortification and estrangement from her husband and most of her children. It was a heart-wrenching and tear-jerking tale, worthy of a drama, surely (Milgonette rolled her eyes and almost scoffed at the thought). She pinched the bridge of her nose in annoyance. If Anke heard her sighs, she wouldn't correlate them to frustration, for she was quite stupid in many ways. At the end of her tirade she sighed and allowed herself a dramatized sob.

"It's horrible, really. My life has practically been stripped away from me. Have you ever felt that, Millie, that your life is no longer your own?"

"Yes, I do. There was a time when I owned the world," Milgonette said wistfully. "There was a time when the numbered days were mine. But numbered days are numbered, aren't they? They don't last."

She could almost see her neighbour nodding in agreement through her silence. "More eloquent words were never spoken. The only thing I ever wished for was a happy marriage. You know, happy wife, happy life. And I had it... for a while. It's really such a mess."

"We all have our own problems."

"Well, look at you. Your relationship with Siger is perfect, ideal, the dream of English families. I'd strive to have your life," Anke said. "Your children are mature, surely their problems are only hormonal³." Milgonette narrowed her eyes, and anyone could see the visible struggle not to aggressively rebuke her over the phone. In the end, she settled for a barely audible scoff, for it was clear their neighbour had no clue what problems the Holmes family truly faced. There was nothing hormonal anymore. It was never anything hormonal. "I do hope you're teasing," she said playfully, but if anyone truly listened they'd be able to hear the hint of venom in her voice.

They chatted for about an hour after that, Milgonette not fully over Anke's insensitive comments. She knew that the majority of their neighbours would be, at the _most_ , of an ordinary intellect, and that their family would not easily fit in. It's not often that a mathematician (well, former), a diplomat, and their two genius children come to town and hope to be accepted automatically. There are struggles in fitting in to the norms of modern urban society, and apparently being stupid was a characteristic the Holmes family would have to wear like an itchy and not-quite-so-snug glove. Millie knew her youngest was having troubles at school, she had gotten frequent calls from one of his teachers, Ms. Assange, to keep an eye on him and see if he was doing alright. She suspected a bit of bullying, it wasn't unexpected when faced with a child of a higher intellect and most likely on the Spectrum. That did not make it any less wrong, however, and she often found herself cursing in the middle of the night at those troublesome children who gave her son such difficulty. She never spoke with their parents, though she knew she ought to; she did not want to have to face their misunderstanding (which would surely come had she opened her mouth) nor the stupidity that would follow the misunderstanding, though it pained her to know Sherlock was deeply and negatively affected by his differences from the others. Her happiness at Sherlock's small reconnection with her was not fully out of context, you see. She hung up the phone with a sigh. Of course, there was no way of knowing with Sherlock, but she could only pray it was a sign he'd found happiness. She really hoped he had it.

She conversed briefly with her husband following that mostly mindless droll with Anke. Siger had always said their neighbours were a bit odd in the head, moreso than regular idiocy. He was right, obviously, as he usually was about these things, but Milgonette refused to believe they were _that_ bad until she saw it for herself. Or rather, heard it for herself. She laughed with him in a mocking manner when she'd reached the part about hormones. "Those damn hormones," he had chuckled. "They ruin everything, don't they?" Their light banter and joking continued for a while after that, their frankly immoral ridiculing alleviating their collective boredom. However, it soon turned into a rueful reflection of their past. 

"I wish it _was_ hormones, Siger," Milgonette sighed, earning a nod of agreement from her spouse. "Mycroft's been working hard. He's practically raised Sherlock. And Eurus... she can't hurt Sherlock anymore. Things will get better. Don't worry, Millie. It will." Milgonette exhaled a deep breath and grasped his hand, rubbing it more for her own reassurance than his. 

"It's been five years," she cried. "Five years since the fire. He almost died, Siger. And now Eurus is gone too, on her own accord. Did she ever even love us?"

"I don't think she ever knew how to love. She was displeased with us, certainly, in how we handled her. We were stupid, remember? We knew nothing of her needs. I think her attraction to Sherlock was mainly because he understood something she couldn't, and presumably knew more about it than she felt we could. When we couldn't solve her puzzle, when _he_ couldn't solve her puzzle back at Musgrave, she felt angry, like we'd wronged her somehow in failing to teach her how to feel. It wasn't our fault, and, honestly, it wasn't hers either. She wouldn't have cared about her life, dear. She couldn't have. There's no blame to go around."

And so the couple left it at that. They'd never truly get over their daughter's suicide, but, like Siger said, there should be no accusations for something of which no one is accused.

Two years following that conversation, Sherlock had graduated secondary school at fifteen. He was immediately accepted into Oxford, much to his parents' joy and his brother's pride. He reveled in their gratification and even Mycroft's delight (though that, he would never admit). Their home on Santers Lane⁴ was deemed too far from the university (it was over an hour long drive, and an even longer bus ride), and so he settled into one of the many dormitories in Oxford's Murdy Residence Hall⁵. He'd glanced briefly at his roommate and her ID before settling his few belongings in his room; a nineteen year-old named Aria Rafi-Syed. She had warm brown skin, and her pupils were the colour of smoked topaz, though perhaps a bit darker. She was taller than average, about 171 centimetres in height, and was very lanky with her thin frame. She didn't look like most girls, she had more of a masculine build, and she never flaunted her body like the other female students in the school. Her posture was very hunched, the posture of a student who spends too much time writing and typing than what's good for her. She wore very loose and long clothing, and had black hair from what he could see beneath her headscarf. She wore dark blue glasses, and had very scarred hands. 

Her father was Indonesian, her mother Sri Lankan. He'd deduced her mother and father were separated when she was young, and she adopted her mother's surname later on. She was a bit of a paradox to him, something he was a bit surprised by, but she was kind to him and helped him get along through the semester. His first day after taking up residence in his dorm, on October 15, 1998, he'd had his first official interaction with her. 

"You have quite a lot of time on your hands," he remarked as soon as she'd stepped in the room. She was carrying a netted bag of apples in her thin, wiry arms, and stopped as soon as he'd spoken. She looked surprised, he noted, and he wondered why. "I'm sorry?" she asked, setting down the apples on her bed, facing him. Sherlock pointed towards her desk, upon which lay a stack of papers, which included embellished fictions, illustrations, and philosophies. Aria flushed and made quick to conceal them from his view.

"I don't actually have that much time, you know," she muttered, her words very rushed. "These are from past days, when I went to Harrow. And I know Harrow isn't that long from here, before you ask, it's because, uh, my mother doesn't have a car and I go by bicycle everywhere..." Sherlock looked on, bewildered, as she rushed to hide all of her work, something or other coming out of her mouth at a rapid speed. Finally, she faced him, her face slightly paled. "You didn't see them, did you? The writings and drawings, I mean?"

"I saw a drawing of a group of people. It was quite impressive. Who were they?" he asked, though he already knew. Many of the people wore strange and mismatched outfits, suggesting they were people she had met online. He was right, as usual. "They're... uh... 'friends' I found on an online server a couple of years ago. I wanted to draw us all when we were parting, so... uh... that happened," she said, moving her black hair out of her face and underneath her loosely adorned scarf. Sherlock cocked his head to the side, perplexed. "Why do you wish to hide them? Your drawings are astoundingly realistic, and I have no doubt your writing is eloquently written, too." She chuckled a bit, only adding to his puzzlement.

"Oh, dear, well... many others wouldn't say the same as you do. Thank you for your kind words, by the way, they are very much appreciated." She flashed a smile at him, one he unconsciously returned. "People say that I am different due to my strange relationships with necessities. They don't like me because of that. They also don't like my work because they don't like me." She paused, looking towards the ceiling and grinning a not-grin, one that Mycroft wore constantly in social events. "The many consequences of subconscious correlation," she mumbled. Facing towards him, she suddenly asked, "So, what about you, Sherlock? What's your story?" It did not pass his notice that she grinned at his brief uncontrolled look of shock. He'd never introduced himself, had never spoken to her before. How...? "I glimpsed over your ID, too, Sherlock. You're not the only slick one here." She earned a bark of laughter from him, and so began their acquaintance. 

"I'm sure you know I don't know my father. You play an instrument, those are artist's hands," she said, pointing to his lanky fingers. Looking closely at his face, she added, "And you've got quite a past, haven't you? What a past, I can see worlds through your skin." Sherlock bit into an apple from Aria's bag (they were remarkably fresh, the girl certainly had good taste) and narrowed his eyes. "You can't see worlds through someone's skin, especially if it's clear. Sure, scars and pallor mean things, but you can't tell everything about a person's past just by looking at their face," he commented with a voice laced with apple. "Yes, you can," she argued. "See here. Your whole face, with your cheekbones and jaw, speaks a staid manner, but look at your eyes! You like having fun. And then the rest of your face is all stress-ridden, even if there's no frown lines or anything. What would a fifteen year-old be stressed about? The only thing I can think of is family issues, clearly you know nothing of social cues and boundaries. Likely you don't care what others think. And look! You're _so_ pale. When's the last time you've eaten something, you're practically a twig! It's not exactly a secret that you were probably bullied and that you're very intelligent." She bit thoughtfully into her own apple. "I'm no psychiatrist, but that bullying's got to mean something in your life. No one walks away from that without some sort of scar or pain or _holyshhhhwhatsthat._ " Her face morphed into one of something Sherlock perceived to be horror, and he was led to believe what exactly he'd done wrong.

"What's what?" he asked, feeling uncomfortable under her gaze.

"On your arm. Oh, Sherlock..."

"What? What is it? What's on my arm?" he demanded, anxiety spiking up a bit. _What the hell...?_ He pulled up his right sleeve, wondering what exactly she was talking about. "There's nothing there."

Aria shook her head and strode up to him, her gangly legs knocking together as she stood up. She gingerly picked up the crab spider that sat on his left arm, opened their window, and set it gently on the sill. She closed the window, huffing a sigh of relief. He was almost intimidated by her unpredictability, and inelegantly breathed out, "What?" She shrugged, smiling sluggishly. "I have no idea," she murmured.

Sherlock's days at Oxford were short due to his intellectual capabilities, but they were nonetheless fulfilling. Quite a few of his courses he shared with Aria in his first term, those included History of Art, Music, and Psychology, Philosophy, and Linguistics. He'd discovered that she was quite intelligent herself, and she encouraged him when he excelled in his classes. He was almost loathe to leave when he'd done all there was to be done in less than half of his first term, for he did not want to be alone nor leave Aria alone. He excelled, though, and his needs to learn was a need he would always listen to. At the end of the day, he'd return to his dormitory and meet with Aria before they did their homework, and they'd retire for the night (well, Aria would. Sometimes.).

Around November, he met Sebastian Wilkes. He wanted to be a banker or a businessman of some sort, only for the money. Sherlock kind of liked Sebastian; he was smarter than the others, cultured, and very good at mathematics. However, when he'd approached Sebastian, he was called a freak for deducing where he and his girlfriend were going to "do it", and was roughly shoved to the floor. "When you're done stalking me, you can go to the headmaster's office and drop out, fag," he had said, stomping out of the hall and leaving Sherlock to wonder what he'd done wrong this time. Digging his fingernails into his palms in frustration, he gathered his bag, dusted his clothes off, and made his way into the library. He ignored the look of suspicion on the librarian's face (he'd made some deductions about her, too, and it was unfortunate she was passing by close enough to hear his hushed whispers of observation at that very moment). He settled into a corner, reading _L'Opinion de Locke sur la 'matière pensante'_ ⁶by John Locke⁷, a philosopher introduced to him by Aria. He had to admit, Locke's theories on the soul were quite interesting, though he couldn't say he explicitly believed in such ludicrous and strange fantasies such as the soul. However, Locke's works did bring some sort of factual aspect into the concept, and he found it very intriguing. The reading brought away his stresses from his encounter with Sebastian, and he relaxed into his corner.

When he returned to his dormitory late that night, he was adequately absorbed in the properties of ideals and morals. He entered the room furtively, unsure why, for he knew his roommate would be up. Said roommate looked up as he stepped in, her brown eyes trailing his steps as he made his way towards his bed. She was lying down on her bed, wearing a purple button-up shirt, rolled up to her elbows, and some dress pants. She hadn't loosened her headscarf, and her clothes were positively wrinkled. It was a habit he was accustomed to seeing in her: being too captivated in a subject or too lazy to change. What was new, however, was how her eyes opened wide, following his every move. He was almost, _almost_ startled when she spoke.

"You've spoken to Sebastian. Tell me what he did," she commanded, in a tone that sounded absolutely nothing like her. It was cold and mean, and sounded almost as if she was planning on taking revenge. "How did you kn-"

"What. Did. He. Do," she repeated, her tone harsher. Sherlock found himself in the unusual position to be intimidated, again, by her unpredictability, so he did as he was told. "I approached him and I thought-"

"You could impress him? Not everybody appreciates high levels of intellect. Sebastian is an ignorant, self-centered, narcissistic, and frankly idiotic bastard that anyone in their right mind would be loathe to meet and would regret it later. I certainly did, and I'm surprised you're not." She looked away from the ceiling and directly at him. Sherlock suddenly realized how tired she looked, which wasn't a surprise considering all those sleepless nights. What was shocking was how he had paid no notice to it before that moment.

"Wh-"

"You think it's your fault. You were conditioned to believe it was your fault. Stop that. Sebastian is an insensitive arsehole and it will never be your fault if he continues to behave this way. Tell me when he does, and I will be there. I'm a year his senior, and don't scoff when I say he will be frightened and will not come within a ten-metre radius of you or me." She got up and strode to him, her movements mechanical. He'd left History of Art early that day, and Aria had assured him she would be fine. She knew he knew that she too was subject to a fair amount of bullying, verbally and physically. Her shoulders were stiff, stiffer than usual. Even in the yellowish light of her desk lamp her eyes looked grey. On her shirt, near her collarbone, was a dark brown stain: not chocolate, chocolate wouldn't make the cloth that rigid and inflexible. When she spoke the inside of her lip was visible, redder than the outside, clearly from biting and picking. Her hands trembled slightly, and as he notice this, other pieces began to fit in his head, when she would constantly flap her hands around, or bounce her knees, or leave a class because she said she couldn't stay there. When she would flick her pen between her thumb and little finger, and loudly tap the table with her nails, getting louder and louder with each second. When she would rock in her seat. He did that too, something he'd gotten comfortable doing only around her...

His train of thoughts crashed into a brick wall and brought him back to reality when she started prodding at his ribs. He looked up at her and opened his mouth to say something but was cut off. "You haven't eaten in days~" she sang, though the melody was not as lighthearted as one might intend it to be. She threw an orange at him from a netted bag in her rucksack, one he started peeling immediately in mild interest and concern of what was unfolding before him. "You've been pushed to the ground, look at your bum. Haven't paid careful attention to that, hm? People will say you were attempting to shag a senior in the broom closet and they smacked you right on your arse. A nice story to cheer up all those bored sophomores." Aria's head twitched, and they both heard a loud, sickening crack coming from her neck. She rubbed it briefly before flapping her hands around. "I feel like your elder sister. Am I your elder sister? Ask one of your parents, I might be," she rambled, turning her head away to one of her philosophies and reading it in what might be perceived as an enthusiastic manner. Her hands shook as she held the paper, reading the words under her breath. Sherlock took the opportunity to speak what was on his mind.

"You have nerve disorders?" he asked, sucking the juice out of an orange slice.

"So do you," Aria deadpanned. "I've seen you stimming before, it's not news you have Asperger's. To me, it isn't, anyway."

"What happened in History of Art?"

"They were too loud and the substitute should die in a hole⁸."

"There's a bloodstain on your collarbone."

"Someone threw a pencil at my neck."

Aria threw down her papers and sighed. Her head jerked to the side again⁹ as she hurried out of the dorm barefooted. Sherlock didn't see her again for the rest of the night. 

He couldn't quite recall the events between his roommate's breakdown and the dawn of the next morning. He wasn't surprised that he'd fallen asleep, the night had been stressful for both he and Aria both. She didn't come back anytime during the night, everything was left as it was, and a pang of sorrow hit him when he realized _everything_ had been left behind, lying flat on the floor or her desk or her bed. Abandoned, as if there to rot, to die. Reluctantly, he gathered his scattered items - what _had_ he been doing? - readied himself for the day, and headed for his chemistry class, closing the door slowly, as if burying a casket. 

As he tipped the vial of dissolved calcium chloride into the beaker filled with dissolved sodium carbonate, he paid careful attention to the gossip around him. He listened for anything, anything at all that might involve Aria, anything that would give an indication of her location. The ringing bell giggles of a group of girls reached his ears, light blue and gold, and though it pained his ears and made his hands quiver, he forced himself to listen to them. 

"Where's that hot Wilkes bloke? Doesn't he take this class?" one of them asked. He believed her name was Sally, Sally Donovan.

"No, but didn't you hear? He was found all beaten up and scratched, with cuts all over him. Apparently someone broke into his room last night, his door was unlocked, and he was unconscious. I'll kill the guy that did that to him, ruining such a handsome face."

Deserting his project, he ran up to the group of girls, a hint of panic setting in. In the most indifferent tone he could manage, he asked, "Do you know where he is?" He cursed to himself as his voice cracked, stupid transport. The girls giggled, before a blonde piped up and said, "Sebastian's been with the nurse the whole day. We don't know where the attacker went, he was probably a junkie or some scum like that." Sherlock huffed, wrapped up his materials within five minutes, and rushed out the door, heading to Sebastian's dorm. 

There were no scuff marks around the lock, nor any signs of forced entry. The door was unlocked, just as that girl had said. Inside, the room was a mess. There was the brownish yellow odour of sweat, and books and papers were strewn about everywhere, on the floor, on his bed. Sebastian lived there alone, and there was the slightest scent of ungodly bodily fluids, mixed with a very aggressive lavender laundry detergent. He gagged, but pressed himself to search the room. Blood soiled the sheets, some stains a bit fresher than others. There was dried blood on the window sill, too, and some on a very dirty rug, dirtied by something Sherlock had no wish of knowing. On the wall, a few centimetres above the bed, he could see writing in graphite, some math formula of some sort. Above the formula were scratches from fingernails, not Sebastian's. Sherlock shuddered, and kept searching. 

The bedsheets were ruffled, if Wilkes' girlfriend was over he'd keep his bed made all the time to prevent suspicion of affairs. There were scuff marks against the bottom of the wall adjacent to the one Sebastian's bed was pushed against, confirming there was a struggle here between him and his attacker. There were grimy impressions in the carpet, a great distance between each footstep. They were new, that was their attacker, and they were quite tall if the length of their stride was any indication. Oh dear, whoever could it be?

He raced out of the residence hall and bolted through the corridors. He searched through his mental map of the university, every nook, every secret he was able to find unearthed by his footsteps. He found _nothing_. The grey fog of the unknown hovered at the back of his mind. _Where? Where? Where?_

The question truly was, "Where?"

Sherlock missed all his classes, but that was alright. He slumped in his dorm at dusk, seeing those very few stars that shone at the beginning, at the end, and in all that comes in between. He'd failed, hadn't he? He'd missed a step, missed a strand of data. Somewhere in Sebastian's room, somewhere in the tones of that hushed conversation, something went unheard. He remembered that day, when he'd come so close to melting down, how Mycroft had come to his rescue. It was pathetic, really. Mycroft hadn't scolded him then, hadn't told him, "Caring is not an advantage, brother mine," as he was so fond of repeating. Aria had understood she and Sherlock were not friends. She had taken the role of 'mentor', of 'elder sibling' when he was alone. Perhaps she had cared, despite her writings questioning morals and what is considered good in urban society. Perhaps she'd cared about him, and maybe he did too. However, right now, he did not care for her, though he knew if he uttered this out loud many would be angered, not for the subject (Aria), but how "cruel" he could be. He felt Not Good, and he felt like a failure. He'd failed someone who understood him the most out of all.

He'd failed someone who tried to protect him.

He didn't care for her.

She was Good, and nothing more. Mycroft would understand that, she certainly did.

Had he failed himself, too?

He rocked himself on the floor, the floor that was littered with paintings and works and writings of strange concepts that made one wonder. They were filled with perceptions of different individuals, mindsets, different brainwork, and neurons, and _feelings_. He hugged his knees as he rocked, scratching red, angry lines into his arms in an attempt to ground himself. No one would see him floating, not for the rest of the night. No one would see him falling, falling, falling, falling-

He scratched harder, the faint but alluring aroma of blood reaching his nose. He didn't feel the pain, it was Not Good, that was all. The room darkened further, clouds gathering. It _was_ rather a cloudy day, wasn't it? he reflected. The soft pitter-patter of rain sounded, so soft, so loud. 

The next thing he knew it was dawn. The papers were messily strewn on the bed, no longer on the floor. It was still raining, and all was silent.

¹In His Last Vow, the name on the book Mrs. Holmes wrote says M. L. Holmes. The whole weird names thing with the Holmes must have come from somewhere, so I suppose Mrs. Holmes must have an uncommon name, too.

²Imagine her saying this like how Mycroft says, "The deduction thing?" in The Final Problem.

³This was inspired by a conversation between my mother and her 'friend'. Her 'friend's' comments were very insensitive and rude, and this was one of the things she said to my mother.

⁴This took a lot of research in Google Maps to find a suitable enough abode for the Holmes'. The place is pretty close to Dame Alice Owen's School, which is a real school in London. You are free to look it up, it's quite a nice house.

⁵I know nothing about Oxford, I'm only just starting high school. I have no idea how any university stuff works, but this is a hall made for students too far from home. I think it's the only thing I'm sure of.

⁶This translates to _Locke's Opinion on 'Thought Matter_ on Google Translate, though I'm pretty sure that's not the correct translation. The essay is about the immortality, morality, and immateriality of the soul. It actually is quite intriguing.

⁷This holds absolutely no reference to the ship Johnlock. It's completely coincidental, and yes, he is a real philosopher.

⁸This event happened yesterday. The substitute in my class was being a little bastard (as he always is). I'm not very creative when it comes to serious events, so I thought I'd add this in there.

⁹These heard jerks are called motor tics. Motor tics are not restricted to head jerks, they can be other things. Also, motor tics aren't muscle spasms, it is a neurological thing. I have motor tics, and they aren't deadly according to doctors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading this chapter, please give feedback <3


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